Behind Closed Doors (18 page)

As I drove back to Paddington the rain turned torrential again, threatened to punch right through the soft top. The wipers were working but I couldn't see them. Springtime in London.

I parked on a meter outside the building and sprinted inside. I was risking a ticket but what kind of attendant would be out in this storm? The dedicated kind, that's what. If I parked round the back of the building I'd get a soaking. If I paid Westminster's parking rates I'd be bled dry. Life's extremes.

Shaughnessy was in his office eating a smoked salmon baguette. A bottle of mineral water stood next to it. Next to the mineral water, Lucy's bum was cluttering his desk. She was attacking something less low-calorie. I flopped into one of Shaughnessy's chairs and dripped water on his carpet.

Shaughnessy looked at me.

‘The McCabes know nothing,' I told him.

Shaughnessy's eyebrows lifted. He'd been betting on the same horse as me: that whatever was going on with the Slaters had already happened to the McCabes.

‘Nothing,' I repeated. ‘No threats, no funny goings-on, no missing kids.' I was eyeing Lucy's sandwich. I'd skipped breakfast and the rain had nixed the prospect of hopping up the road to Connie's. I'd have to catch up later.

I gave them the details of McCabe's lacklustre responses on the subjects of the Royal Trafalgar and Tina Brown. The guy had stayed at the hotel and he recognised Tina, but none of it seemed to mean much to him. And he'd never heard of anyone called McAllister.

‘A photo of McAllister would have been a good memory jogger,' I said. ‘Maybe I should have asked him to pose for a couple of snaps at the Algarve.' I asked Shaughnessy what he'd picked up on the two guys.

‘Plenty,' Shaughnessy said. He placed the baguette back on its paper and popped the top on his fizzy water.

‘We're looking at career criminals. McAllister has a record going back to his eighteenth birthday. He celebrated the occasion by getting nicked for armed robbery on a convenience store. Sent down for eighteen months. Should have done it the day before and avoided the adult record. He was fingered again a few years later for armed robbery but the case fell through when a couple of witnesses changed their stories. Nothing since, but the Mets have him pegged for at least ten capers ranging from robbery and extortion to rigging horses.'

‘The sport of kings,' I said. ‘Should be an Olympic event.'

‘McAllister learned his lesson early and got smart,' Shaughnessy concluded. ‘The Mets haven't come near to anything they could take to the CPS in thirty years. He runs a body shop in Brixton but the shop would have to be the busiest on the planet to make the dough he flashes.'

‘The guy's a big spender?' I asked.

‘Very big,' Shaughnessy said. ‘He lives in a House in Bayswater valued at six-point-five million. Owns a three hundred acre farm in Kent. Rumoured to have three commercial properties on the Costa del Sol. Then there's his hobby-horse.'

‘The Algarve Club,' I said. ‘The way he dilutes the drinks must be costing him a fortune in water rates.'

‘My drinks were fine,' Shaughnessy said. ‘I guess it's hard to water down water.'

I gave him Sam Sneer. ‘Where do you think the Algarve sourced your Buxton Mineral Water at four-fifty a shot?'

‘The tap,' Shaughnessy said. ‘Where else?'

Shaughnessy had talked to Zach Finch, our man at the Mets. Zach and I went back a long way. Zach had come within a whisker of taking early retirement himself when I got the boot but I talked him out of it. Painted a picture of him sat at home all day under the wife's whip. He reconsidered and put the retirement on hold. We stayed in touch and helped each other out now and then.

Zach's ears had pricked up when Shaughnessy dropped McAllister's name. I'd not come across the man myself but then the Mets' Christmas card list is longer than their proverbial arm. Zach knew the guy well: McAllister had been one of the top dogs on his patch back in Zach's uniform days and he'd stayed on the Mets' untouchable list since then. Anything we could do to throw a banana skin under his feet, Zach was happy. Zach also had some info on Ray Child.

‘A.k.a. Merlin the Magician,' Shaughnessy said. ‘Only you wouldn't want to get invited to one of his parties. His speciality is disappearing tricks. The way Zach tells it Child is McAllister's sanitation man. He's the reason McAllister has stayed out of jail. No one ever comes forward with anything that could take McAllister down. When the Mets get halfway close any informants or witnesses clam up or disappear.'

‘Merlin the Magician,' I said. ‘So we're looking at career professionals.' I looked at Shaughnessy. ‘These people look perfect for a kidnapping racket.'

Shaughnessy slanted his lips. ‘They've got Rebecca.'

That was my feeling too. It didn't explain why McAllister had put Larry Slater up in five-star luxury though. The golden rule in ransom schemes is minimum contact. Strike fast, stay out of sight, grab the dosh, get out. The family never meets you, never sees you. No trail to lead back to you. The thing with the Slater family was all off-kilter. I thought it over. Couldn't make things fit.

‘Anything on Alpha?' I asked Lucy.

‘I checked the grapevine,' she said. ‘Roker is the kind of private investigator that gives the profession a bad smell.'

‘A true rarity,' I said.

‘He runs the firm,' said Shaughnessy. ‘Alpha covers the full spectrum: investigation, notice serving, debt collecting, minders. Specialise in the latter two. High turnover, low skill stuff. They've a reputation,' he said, ‘for operating on the wrong side of the law. Basically they're hired hands for anyone who doesn't want his own fingers dirtied.'

‘So Alpha Security organises the Brighton thing for McAllister,' I said. ‘The room and the hooker. The question is, what kind of business deal needs that sort of sweetener?'

‘A dirty deal,' Lucy chipped in. She shoved the last of her baguette in her face.

‘What we're missing is the tie in with Rebecca and her supposed abduction,' I said. ‘This thing's going round and round. Let's stick with the certs and work from there. Rebecca is missing. Her stepfather is raising money fast and he's involved with McAllister. Putting two and two together the money is going to McAllister.'

‘So why is Larry Slater chasing Tina Brown?' Lucy asked. ‘I don't see a connection between Slater's dirty weekends and his stepdaughter's abduction.'

‘Tina is the oddity,' I agreed. ‘But Slater's fixation on her right now says that there is a connection. Maybe Tina is involved in Rebecca's disappearance. I'm wondering if Slater sees her as his route to Rebecca.'

‘Except that the lady is AWOL too,' Shaughnessy said.

‘Just like Rebecca.'

‘Maybe even with Rebecca.'

I nodded. ‘That's where I'm finishing up. If they've got Rebecca hidden away then someone must be with her. We know where McAllister and Child were last night. So who was with the girl?'

‘If they've got Rebecca,' Shaughnessy said, ‘we just need to figure where.' He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

‘McAllister's farm,' I said. ‘You want to take a gander?'

Shaughnessy nodded and started back on his sandwich.

‘I want to take another drive down to Chevening,' I said. ‘See if I can catch the Hanlons this time. The McCabe blank might be the exception.' I looked at Lucy. ‘Anything else?'

Lucy wiped coleslaw off her lips and gave me a smirk.

‘Thought you'd never ask, Eddie,' she said. ‘Do I get a bonus for detective work?'

‘Are we paying you nowadays?'

‘Not usually.'

‘Then double it,' I said. ‘Only if you're a detective you'll have to come with me on stakeouts. There's gonna be those long nights parked outside some guy's secret love nest.'

‘It wouldn't work out,' Lucy said. ‘There'd be detectives staking you out if Arabel heard we were night-shifting together.'

‘Yeah,' I said, ‘we'd have to wear shades. So what did your detective skills dig up?'

‘The Hanlons fit what you're looking for. David Hanlon owns a computer wholesale firm. His wife's an interior designer with a practice in Sevenoaks. The family's worth around twenty million. Two kids - a daughter, sixteen and a son, six. Hanlon is active on the local council. Ran for Parliament for the Conservatives. Came second to the Lib-Dems. He has a seat on the CBI executive. The family's well to do,' she concluded.

The Hanlons fit the pattern perfectly.

‘I made your other calls,' Lucy said. ‘Gina Redding is confident you're about to crack the case. Sadie Bannister was frantic. She's decided that Rebecca has been murdered. She's coming to see you again.'

I let that pass. ‘Did she have anything more on Rebecca's friend Russell?' I asked.

‘Nothing. She's changed her mind on Russell, says he's not involved.'

‘Well that saves us some legwork. When is Miss Precocious coming to call?'

‘She didn't say. She wants to surprise you.'

I gave her my Shit-Eater. ‘The girl's a fox,' I said. ‘She should be working for us.'

‘Then you'd have to pay her.'

‘No problem,' I said. ‘The two of you could form a queue. If she turns up call me. I'll hide under the desk.'

‘She'd probably track you down anyway,' said Lucy.

‘Yeah,' I agreed. ‘Maybe I should just shoot myself now. Be on the safe side.

I made Chevening by two thirty and drove up a waterlogged driveway. The Hanlons' gate was still barred. No answer when I pressed the bell. I pushed an envelope into their post box and turned the Frogeye around. The gatehouse was closed up against the weather but the owner's red Nissan was parked at the side. I knocked on the door.

An elderly woman answered. I put her in her late sixties, but she had a glow a forty-year-old might envy. Her ginger hair hinted at former flame and her girlish face still held echoes of youth. The woman had turned heads in her time. I told her I'd spoken to her husband yesterday.

She invited me in. The cottage was furnished in dark oak that felt aged without seeming worn. A museum's worth of bric-a-brac covered every surface and wall. The woman introduced herself as Lottie and called her husband through. While we waited she launched into the story of how they'd spent their working life abroad. Her husband William had worked in the diplomatic service, toured four South American countries and Malaysia. They travelled the rest of the world in their vacation time. Then two years back William had retired and they'd not set foot outside the UK since. Catching up.

William came through and nodded a greeting.

‘Mr Coffee,' he said. ‘Still no luck with the Hanlons?'

I shrugged amicably. ‘I should have telephoned,' I said. ‘But I was passing by again, thought I'd try my luck.'

‘They're out most days,' his wife said. ‘Both working. Children at school. I think you'll need to phone to catch them.'

‘I'll do that,' I said. ‘There's no way I want to miss them. I don't get here so often.'

‘Welcome to the club,' William said. ‘Longest period we ever went without setting foot in Blighty was eight years. Would have been longer but for Lottie's father dying. But now that we're here for good it's hard to believe we ever lived anywhere else.'

‘I guess it's quite an adjustment,' I said. ‘It's funny we didn't meet last time I was here.'

‘Not if it's more than seven months ago,' William said. ‘That's when we arrived. We've barely got this place in order.'

Seven months.

Interesting.

‘It's a funny thing,' I said. ‘David and Faye were never keen to part with this cottage.' A believable spiel if the Hanlons had actually owned the cottage seven months back. Sheer guesswork.

But I was on the button. William laughed. ‘Lucky for us they finally changed their minds,' he said. ‘A place like this is one in a million. We thought we'd spend a year at least finding somewhere when we moved back. Spotted this cottage in an agents in Sevenoaks just by chance. Fresh on the market and at a price that was downright crazy.'

‘David and Faye sold it cheap?'

Lottie chuckled. ‘William and I had a blazing row over it. The agent assured us that the property was a bargain but the price was so low that William was convinced that something was wrong. William didn't want to waste money on a survey.'

‘The price was too low by far,' her husband said. ‘Sometimes you have to be cautious.'

‘Cautious?' his wife said. ‘We nearly walked away from a bargain! Thank God I managed to squeeze the fee out of you. The survey came up clean and we got a once-in-a-lifetime deal.'

‘Strange that David was in such a hurry,' I said. ‘They never mentioned it to me.'

‘Apparently they'd had their eye on a place in France,' William said. ‘Got an offer they couldn't refuse and needed to raise the full capital within the week. The cottage was the simplest thing to offload.'

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I've never thought of selling property as a fast way to get cash.'

‘That's why the low price. The agent took the house off their hands overnight for a knockdown price. Expedited the whole thing. Must have made a killing when he sold it to us a couple of weeks later.'

I shook my head. ‘It's amazing how an estate agent can get his hands on that kind of free capital.'

William batted it away. ‘These agents can get hold of millions if they need to,' he said. ‘But they must have only taken the place off the Hanlons for around four hundred thousand. That's my guess, assuming they made twenty-five percent when they sold to us.'

Four hundred thousand. Seven months back. Three months after Hanlon's date with Paul McAllister in Brighton. This was Larry Slater all over again - first you're feted as McAllister's guest then a couple of months later you're offloading property at a discount to get fast cash. The McCabes had been a dud but my chat with David Hanlon was going to be interesting.

Lottie offered me tea but I made excuses about a schedule. Said I'd be back tomorrow to see the Hanlons.

‘If you can catch them,' William said.

‘No problem there,' I told him. ‘I'm definitely expecting David and Faye to be at home tomorrow.'

On this I was confident. Wild horses wouldn't drag the Hanlons out of the house tomorrow once they'd read the note in their post box.

I drove back into town and went up to the office. Shaughnessy was out looking at McAllister's farm. I called him to see if he needed backup. Shaughnessy didn't need help. He gave me the executive summary on what was happening at the farm, which was nothing.

The place was deserted. Just some stored farm machinery. No one living or working there. No one in the attic or in the cellar. He'd spent over an hour checking the house and walking the land. No suspicious outbuildings where you might stash a girl. The place appeared to be a weekend home. No sign of recent occupancy. The rubbish bins were empty. The larder was bare.

You win some, you lose some. The farm hadn't been a cert. Just an obvious place to look. I'd have given it one in four. In the investigation business those are the best odds you get.

Shaughnessy said he'd give the farm another hour, let me know if anything did turn up. Otherwise we'd talk tomorrow.

Tomorrow was D-Day. Time to end this thing, as I'd promised Sammy, although I wasn't sure it was going to end the way her friend Tina would want. I just needed my chat with the Hanlons first then we were taking whatever we had to the Slaters. As a minimum, what we had was the circumstantial triangle between Slater, McAllister and fast cash. Those links were clear enough to interest the authorities if Slater refused to talk. As a minimum, too, we had the interesting paperwork that pointed to another kind of triangle, the one involving Slater and Tina Brown. Either Slater talked to us tomorrow or the police would be in the house by evening and the divorce lawyers right after.

I drove to Fulham. The Algarve was already open. Another tenner chalked to Eagle Eye's expenses and I was in, nursing another weak lager at a table in the back. Only three other customers. The stage was dark. I didn't chat with the girl who served me and she moved quickly away. I was looking for our hostess from last night.

I was in luck. My girl came out thirty minutes later, wearing something so skimpy you had to use your imagination to picture her clothed. I toasted her, got a smile of recognition. No mean old Shaughnessy and his mineral water today. I passed her a tenner but didn't name a drink. Just turned Harmless Charmer to full strength.

‘I've got a question,' I said. The smile diluted a little but the girl kept a game face. I handed her the photograph of Tina Brown.

‘Do you know her?' I asked.

‘Sure,' she said. ‘She comes in sometimes.'

‘Recently?'

She thought a moment then shook her head. ‘Maybe not for a couple of weeks,' she said. ‘Any reason you're asking?'

I shrugged. Kept up the Harmless Charmer. ‘Tina's an old friend,' I said. ‘She doesn't know I'm in town. Just thought I'd catch up with her.'

Her face relaxed. She shrugged. ‘I'm not sure she'll be in anytime soon,' she said.

‘Does she usually come in with anyone special?'

Her eyes opened. She glanced around. I guess people didn't ask too many questions at the Algarve. It was that kind of place.

‘Mostly with Paul,' she said finally.

‘Paul McAllister?'

‘Yeah. I think they have something going. I've seen her with him a few times. She's only in when he's here.'

‘Is Tina a friend of yours?'

She shook her head. ‘I've never spoken to her. Just brought drinks across. I only remember her because of her looks. I see her and think, “If only...”'

‘Does she ever perform here?' I nodded at the stage.

She gave me a sad laugh. ‘No way! Not her scene.' She looked round again. ‘The Algarve is a little low-class for someone like Tina,' she said. ‘I often wish I was somewhere else, too.'

‘I know what you mean,' I told her.

‘Can I get you a drink? I really should be working.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm fine with what I've got. Just get one yourself.'

She smiled and turned away with her tenner. When she'd gone I abandoned my drink and walked out.

Tuesday night loomed. I had a bare larder and Arabel was out with her girlfriends. I put it all together and came up with only one solution. I freshened up and drove up to Paddington and parked behind the office. Hit a Chinese up the road and pigged out on
Crispy Duck and three bottles of beer. I wouldn't be driving home.

The weather was foul. I walked the quarter-mile to the Podium in gusting winds and intermittent drizzle. Settled down in the warmth and smoke near the stage. Jack brought over a London Pride. No added water. An ensemble called Black and Blue was warming up. I relaxed and let the discord wash over me. Half recognised a face in the smoke across the stage and wondered whether to go over, but I couldn't quite say if we'd met. Decided on isolation. Jack brought another beer and when the lead started up with a squeal of trumpet I was floating. D-Day tomorrow. Tonight my brain could pickle.

The jazz was mellow, post-fusion. Not my kind of stuff but the music soothed my ears and a couple more Prides did the pickling. The Podium filled up. A couple of punks came and sat at my table and I raised my glass but we didn't talk. The first ensemble quit and a five-piece came on for the late-night set. They were fronted by a black singer in her late teens with a voice that took you back to Eartha Kitt. I succumbed to the hypnotic lullabies and floated through the haze. When Barney came to roust me at two thirty the stage was dark and the Podium was emptying. Time to hit the office couch.

The rain was steady, turned to needles by the wind. I moved fast but the wet penetrated. If I was lucky I'd get back to the office before my clothes were too soaked to sleep in. The Eagle Eye couch was not conducive to the best night's rest even in dry clothes. I could have stashed a sleeping bag in my cupboard but that would have been admitting that I used the place as a crash. My sense of style rejected the notion. I was averaging a night a week but it was always unplanned so it didn't count.

Two forty-five. I covered the empty streets in ten minutes.

I turned into Chase Street and saw blue lights by the access road to the rear of the buildings. Two fire engines. One patrol car. Somewhere in the shadows behind the buildings a light was dancing. Something burning. I walked past the police vehicle. A uniformed cop yelled after me and hopped out of his car when I didn't stop.

He yelled at me again, but I was way ahead. Sprinted to where the fire hoses snaked into the alley. When I got to the corner I saw the Frogeye burning merrily, lighting up the back of the buildings. The copper caught up and grabbed me by the shoulder.

‘Are you frigging deaf, mate?' he said. I shook him off but didn't go any further in. Watched the firemen playing their hoses over the skeleton of my car.

‘You think this is a bleeding show?' the cop said. Being pulled out into the rain had drained his official manners. He grabbed my shoulder again. ‘Come out now before I get annoyed.'

‘It's mine,' I said. I nodded at the Frogeye.

He let go of my shoulder. Looked at the burning car. The flames were dying, white smoke rising through the dark like an evil genie.

‘Well, I hope your insurance is up to date. I don't think you'll be driving those wheels out of there.'

The last flickers died. The show was over. I talked to the firemen while they damped the wreck down, then the cop sat me in his car to answer questions. His partner watched through his rear-view, bored by the action. I narrated my details as the firemen reeled in their hoses. The cop finally snapped his notebook and pushed it into his pocket.

‘What's a Frogeye Sprite anyway?' his buddy asked. ‘You get it at Hamleys?' I saw his grin in the rear-view.

I smiled back and wagged a finger at his little joke. Then I got out and walked down the street and let myself into the building.

The office was colder than usual and my clothes were soaked. I pulled off the outer stuff and carried the two-bar electric through to reception. Set it a foot from the couch. I lay down and told myself that tomorrow would be better. Maybe when I woke up I'd find that the whole thing was a dream. Maybe I'd find the Frogeye out back, green and shining. That's what I told myself. More realistically, the two-bar would burn the building down while I snored.

I looked on the bright side. A dead Frogeye was better than my nose.

I pushed my nose into the back of the couch and let the electric fire warm my back. Tried to sleep.